Ywrighting: March 2014

Seven Month!

How I Write

Mainly on Google Doc (Some drastic improvements has been made somewhere and it's now running like a champ), occasionally on Writebox.

What I Worked on and Am Working On

I submitted 1 stories to The New Yorker today (just an hour early) since the last monthly update, a short fiction about 4500 words.

I'm currently leaving a first draft that is finished at over 10,000 words along, which's going to Tor.com. I will set it dry for now before revising and editing for final submission, probably at the end of April or early May.

Currently drafting an idea for the monthly fiction submission to The New Yorker Magazine.

Currently drafting an idea for a flash fiction story.

About to begin the Camp NaNoWriMo. I'm going to write 50,000 words in thirty days again, I think I could make it in 20 days but who knows.

Why I Write

I write to live in the life I don't live, to speak in the voice I don't speak.

Where I Write

In my own room, or the dining table in front of the Acer C720 Chromebook.

And other imaginary spaces I conjured upon writing.

Who Motivated Me This Month

Selected Shorts

What Am I Reading

Read ten books in a month, though most of them were shorter than my usual reads. For more about what I've read, please visit my reading list.

A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway [02/03/2014]
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald [04/03/2014]
Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer by Roy Peter Clark [07/03/2014]
A Journey to the Center of the Earth by Jules Verne [13/03/2014]
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne [17/03/2014]
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley [18/03/2014]
Mirrorshades: The Cyberpunk Anthology by Bruce Sterling[22/03/2014]
Best of Alternative Journalism (Published by Association of Alternative Newsmedia)[28/03/2014]
How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe by Charles Yu[29/03/2014]
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll[30/03/2014]

Currently reading Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll, a follow up of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Planning to read more classical works in April but probably will not have sufficient time besides writing frantically.

Am I studying

Obviously YES.

I am currently enrolled into several MOOC(Massive Open Online Course) provided by edX and Coursera, though they are not yet started.

Freshly completed the course by UTAustinX Jazz Appreciation

I've also picked up a new language to master this year and is currently advancing my German on Duolingo!

Ich lese, Ich schreibe.

Continue

It has been a fruitful seventh month, I've written roughly 25,000 words.

~20,000 words short fictions, ~5,000 words blog and other writings.

The following month, April that is, will see posts mostly concerning the Camp NaNoWriMo because I have no time to dedicate but it.

So long. Peace off.

Hong Kong Rugby Sevens

It's been quite an extraordinary day at the field of Hong Kong Stadium, where teams from different continents gathered and played Rugby against each other.

While the weather has not been the perfect sunshine, with occasional heavy rain, but it seemed that the fans and the players had not been steamed-off by it. It was an all around hype, the never ceasing cheers and the fumbling turn over had everyone dazed.

I personally had never ever been to a Rugby match or played the sport, I vaguely recall watching it broadcasting live and on the news, but never really finished marvelling one match to the end. It was, to me, a sport that I didn't want to get to know about. But after seeing it today? Man, I could just tell you I'm hooked. All those physical play and running and pulling and tackling and jumping and bumping and fumbling and scratching and passing and sliding and kicking and spinning, just weren't getting enough.

I don't know why I haven't been watching it, but now that I knew half of the fun of the sport, there's no stopping me from getting into the game!

Well, what can I say, I'm easily attracted, equally distracted.

Have you seen the game in any form of media? What's the moment to you?

For me, it's the short span but high intensity gameplay, the seven minute of non-stop excitement and agony. But I saw that it's mostly dominated by a team, and the other team rarely had a chance to fight back and regain the position. Though when it happened, it was usually the moment when your heart started racing and the cheers from the crowd grew louder and louder. Though again, it usually went to a foul at the edge of the goal line, and shattered the hope entirely.

It's a brutal game, but the brutality is one of the major attraction. And it's a foreigner's game, based on what I could see on the spectator stands. But you know, it's an ever growing sport, maybe someday Hong Kong would get into the big league, like Japan did today, and play out well enough to attract the attention of the locals.

So, this happened. Don't worry, its not like I've cancer or anything, the hair'll grow back, people. It'll be back. pic.twitter.com/aJucwv7boz
— Stephen Y (@writeryuii) March 29, 2014

You Are Not Dizzy? How About Now?

A SQUASH'D Parkour POV

Camp NaNoWriMo is fast approaching, getting ready to type, and getting ready to blow your mind
— Stephen Y (@writeryuii) March 28, 2014

April marks the beginning the seventh month of my writing career, which is at a standstill. Well, not exactly. Even though no stories of mine had been published (it could take years, based on what I've seen or read about other writers, but it varies, so you'll never know). I've been trying my best to at least formulate a new idea everyday with no fore planning but instantaneous free form writing, all of which you can read here. More about what happened this month will be included in the Monthly post. I've also coming to notice how I write and what I write, and what I can do to improve it. But it's all too soon to even set the plan forth, I'll have to experiment with different styles and genres and voices, so as to find the perfect match to myself.

Anyway, Camp NaNoWriMo, as they branded it, is an escape to write wildly with a goal set by yourself. It sounds liberating at first, but not quite. For an writer barely starting out as myself, I still had no sense of scale, and don't even bother estimating how many words the writing would go (either too long or too short), so I decided to stick to the factory default, the golden 50,000 words. Be I an overachiever, or underachiever, I would be able to see how much I've improved since last November since my first took part in NaNoWriMo.

I mostly write stories without a general planning but a few essential core ideas in hearts, while as during NaNoWriMo, I tend to prepare myself in any extend as much as possible so as to anticipate the unforeseeable barriers and difficulties. And surely it worked very well, and I was able to write over 50,000 in only 14 days and nights. It was a selfless experience, of typing so many words in so little time, without minding the general context or the story or the flaws or the cliché.

I take NaNoWriMo as an escape to the greater good of writing, of being unconscious of my flaws and weakness and focused solely on my strengthen, in order to challenge my mind's durability on writing long prose.

And without winking, I signed up for Camp NaNoWriMo when the invitation email dropped by my Google Now.

A Walk

Today was a fine day, the sun was shining and the bird was tweeting their songs of nature, reminding me that we are still living alongside nature herself. And to access nature, the most convenient way is to the Hong Kong Park and the Botanic Garden, where a dozen flowers and animals were housed.

The day started late, and no until nine in the morning did the sun came through the cover of clouds. Ma and I took the tram, the cheap and obvious choice, to Admiralty. On the tram were people of different kind, and four of them were from German, or at least I thought I heard them spoke German (I heard them spoke of the word Wasser and Zeitung, which means water and newspaper in English, I know this because I'm currently learning German on Duolingo). It was a very interesting experience nonetheless, even though I couldn't understand their entire conversation.

Upon arrival at the entrance of Hong Kong Park, were flowers and an artificial waterfall. I always like that design, who thought of putting it there in the first place anyway, they are absolutely genius. And so we walked the park, revisited the ponds and saw turtles and fishes. We didn't pay much attention to them though for our true purpose there were to tour the bird house.

It's not exactly a house, but a space formed by a giant net in the sky (skynet if you will), and enclosed a space consisted of some dozen trees and streams and ponds and a constructed walkway. It's a fabulous experience to get so close with so many different birds, knowing they are around there somewhere and seeing them flying around and singing in their own tongue. Bird language is chic. Birds here were of different color and shades and sizes and sounds, but I could barely scratch my head around them so I could not give you a detailed description of them here. You must go there and see it for yourself, if you haven't already.

Later we went to the Botanic Garden and the Caged Animal Sector, and man did those mammals cry out loud. They were yelling in a sequence like an ambulance, I think they must have heard it and imitated it.

Well, it's dinner, so long.

Mace of Coxdale

After thirty days and thirty nights, the Mace of Coxdale finally ejected itself from the incinerating heat. The irregular shape of its blades shone a bright red, when Kell, Coxdale's only surviving blacksmith lifted it with a heavy metal clamp and dropped it into the stream.

Steam rose, and then came the smell of burning, only it lasted as long as the hissing and bubbling of water went. Eventually the flowing water produced no more trail of white smoke, or sounds except the running water, or smell of melted metal. Kell pulled up his trouser and took off his clothes and stepped into the river. His hands dipped into the riverbed and hoisted the mace head and tossed it to the riverbank.

The shape of the mace had already settled down to its original design and Kell was now picking the surface to mark it with words and symbols. Under the head, the part which would join with an heavy wooden staff, was engraved with his name and the town's.

The Berlonm had mascaraed many townsfolk, including women and children. Among the dead, were friends and families and colleagues. Kell had to avenge their death, and the first step, was to create the Mace of Coxdale, the only thing he knew best, the signature craft of his trade.

The mace head had now joined the staff, and formed a unity of balance and power. Kell waved the Mace of Coxdale and felt the rage and fury. He directed the weight to an giant boulder and the mace instantly split it into thousand dust.

Kell held the Mace of Coxdale up to his shoulder and marveled at his own work. With this, no armies, certainly not The Berlonm, could stop the malice from spreading.

Terror, is coming.

Bobby Knows the Best

There sat Bobby, alone, exhausted. Sweat was running down his pink neck, and a mosquitoes was drinking from the exposed vessel. The soccer field had been packed with an audience of five hundred, locals and parents, but it was not the case today. Quiet, windless, wet. The day had started with a drizzle, and the bright green grass of yesterday had turned away, where the lifeless, brown yellow sadness now took over.

Bobby had been practising his shooting the whole morning, all by himself. The goalkeeper he pretended to see was now sitting next to him.

"You've got a few decent shot today," said the goalkeeper. Bobby didn't name it after anyone.

"And you've got a few decent saves," said Bobby, looking down at the ball. His hands rubbing the leather surface, and rolling the ball back and forth.

"Wanna go for another round?" said the goalkeeper.

"Sure. Are you?" said Bobby.

"Bring it."

He stood up and was just about to kick the ball into the field when someone called him.

"Bobby! Yo, Bobby."

Bobby turned to see Silly Jones on his dirt bike. "What?"

"Your mommy's looking for you, Bobby."

"Where?" Bobby shouted back to Silly Jones.

"Just down the road," he rode the bike down the track and crossed the lawn and cut a diagonal stripe on the grass. Mr. Stenfield wouldn't like it when he saw that someone had destroyed his beautiful property. "I can give you a ride you know. I can ride really fast like those guys who can kick the ball so so far away."

"Thanks, but no," Bobby glanced at Silly Jones' dirt bike. It was an old, and torn up scrap of metal, a pure relic passed down from his grandfather and Silly Jones had been riding on the bike since the day his grandpa died. The gears had worn down and the chain had not been oiled properly that it now generate a irritating noise with every revolution. Besides, the backseat was practically non-existent, who could fit in that tiny remaining rusted metal frame anyway.

"Well, that's a shame. I thought I could get you a ride or something. Anyway, good seeing ya. Gotta ride home now, looks like it's gonna rain," Silly Jones was riding away. "See you tomorrow at school," he yelled.

"Yeah, I guess so," Bobby lifted the ball with the tip of his left foot and caught the ball in midair. "Gotta run now," he said to himself and maybe the invisible goalkeeper. He was running with the ball and wondering why hadn't he introduced the goalkeeper to Silly Jones.

Back and Home Again

I was away for a few days, as you might have probably noticed from the lack of new posts since last Thursday. I'd been sick though, on the third day, and had stayed for an extra day to recover (I'm still not cleared and am typing with dizziness).

But it was also during this downtime, without anymore audiobooks or podcast to listen to because I'd exhausted all of them on the road (which include the last few stories of Mirrorshades, dozen of Selected Shorts and some Nerdist and This American Life and Stuff You Should Know. I know I know, I've pretty eclectic taste), that I pondered the question about the stories that I'm working on (first drafts are above 10,000 words and 4,000 words)

I treasured these moments, of having nothing with me but myself. Where I could just drift off into my imaginations without focusing in anything in particular (daydreaming's the technical term). And I did too often went from one ideas into another totally different realm of space and time and place. I could not control myself, and the temptation of jumping around, fondling with ideas had me tipped over the original intention. It wasn't for nothing though, for I had found something, or I believe I had found something to contribute to my stories, to shape them into a constructed, fully realized body of works, while the draft remains a mental creation of my mind's free flow imagination and vivid visualization.

What can I say, I learned a lot from Selected Shorts, and I do find some of my weakness, or shady sides of my writing. I tend to write too long, longer than the writing should have. I don't blame them on my lack of vocabulary, but the fact that I don't have my own voice yet, a voice that I used to talk, to communicate. A crystal clear, defined vocal of my own is what I'm craving for. But I'm not good at conveying my ideas in speaking, I found myself more organized at words but still, the words of mine lack a certain kind of clarity, or depth.

I'm in touching with English merely on the literal term, on books and TV and Movie, but not as much as direct conversing with another flesh. I'm afraid, you know, afraid to say something wrong, of being stupid and stutter between words. It's a mental barrier to overcome, and it's one of those things that are easier said than done.

Well, it's been long, and I'm tired and dizzy, and that's my excuse. What's yours.

Bewildered

There she was again, the same girl Tory had been seeing was now beckoning at her direction. The alley remained silence on their encounter, and so was the street. Tory turned her head but saw no one. The girl away from her was still waving, her green dress rippled and her long brown hair swayed in the sudden gush of wind. Tory closed her eyes with fists clenched, and counted to five in her head. At five, she didn't open her eyes but inhaled deeply. Then she felt a pair of warm palms connected with her fists. A surge of blood filled her chest and suffocated her. Her eyelids clung to her face and maintained the shutdown. Tory was not afraid, but her body told us otherwise.

There came a pigeon, flying low, flapping its wings and landed on the ground before Tory. The previous feeling had escaped, and the orders of the world had been restored. The pigeon walked with its head jerking back and forth, its eyes shone with a light. And when it approached Tory and circled around her and rested at her feet, did she crouch down to look at the gray and white bird in care. In fact, its eyes were replaced by something. Up close, Tory saw it was socketed with a small gem, black in color but reflective none the less. She petted the pigeon sat on the ground, and at its first groan, the black gem fell out of its eye and landed on Tory's hand. Then it flew away.

Tory held it to her eyes and saw it was shining like a diamond, she didn't hesitate but slotted it into her pocket. She walked past the alley and entered into the familiar street.

Deck

Amy had two kids, three jobs, four identities.

Her kids were swallowed by the endless sickness since birth, and she were trying to earn enough to pay for their treatment.

Three of her jobs were all in the same building. A casino dealer, a canteen waiter and a contracted call girl.

And when life and events took her away from her kids, she'd surely struggled and fought back with her army qualified skills.

Here came the music from the slot machines and the running of the coins, where people hopelessly threw the coins into the void, hoping to catch a glimpse of the light, and dreaming about the life that never happened, yet.

Amy entered the floor and checked her sleeves once again. The red and the black and the gold, mesmerizing to recognize; the smell of alcohol and sweets, choking and pumping. She went to a blackjack table and relieved Jackie from her shift. There were three people playing and they weren't looking so good. They were pale on the skin and lips, and had a stare that could make kids cry. Amy shuffled the deck and dealt her first hand of the day. And so the day went on.

The time ticked and tocked, and soon she was substituted by Karen. She rushed back into the rest room and put over a coat over her work clothes and went out of the casino. At the elevator she pushed for twenty, where the scratchy label next to it read 'Fashxion'. She put on the hat from the coat and stepped inside when the elevator arrived. The same music was playing, an old folk song, symbolizing family and harmony. She took out her phone and dialed for home when she came out of the elevator. It was still ringing when she turned into the staircase.

"Hello, this is Candy speaking, who am I talking to?" said a little girl's voice.
"Hey baby, is mommy. How are doing? Have you take your medicine yet?" said Amy, messaging her necks.
"I have," said the girl and there then Amy heard someone speaking low in the background. "It's mommy," said Candy to whoever she was talking to.
"Are you talking to Aunt Anna?" said Amy.
"No, Aunt Anna's sick today, she's at the doctor's. I'm talking to her friend, Mr. Lane."
"What baby? What did you just say?" stutterd Amy.
"It's just Mr. Lane."
Amy lost the grip on her phone and she collapsed toward the wall.

Sell Hard

This is an once in a lifetime opportunity, Mr. Lane. Now, I'm not trying to sell you anything here, but just to remind you the profit you could have gained from just this one investment. Think of this as a game, and you are the person who designed the game, you knows the ins-and-outs, down to every little details. And you are the one who's going to play this game, and you know you are going to at least play through the game with a familiar feeling, and that feeling is that you are going to win the game at your first try. No one knows the game as much as you do. So by investing to this product with such potential and so little risk, you are in for the biggest slice of the share when the price went BOOM! It's definitely profitable and you can look forward to a payout of at least a ten times of your investment, according to our most prudent estimation. Think of what you could do with that kind of profit there? Do you not have a dream house waiting for you to move in? Do you not have a luxury yacht waiting for you to take her out into the ocean? Do you not have a super sports car waiting for you to drive and drift? It's all yours, Mr. Lane. It'll happen. And that's not the crazy thing. The crazy thing is that you can use the money to fulfill many other fantasies of yours. Are you not tempted to travel around the world, living in five star hotels, the best suites, the best view, without waiting in the line because you can afford to pay the premium to get one. You can be the boss of yourself and everything else. Think of your future as present as your dreams are. And acting is always better than just thinking. What do you say, Mr. Lane. Just think of all the possibilities out there in the world.

The answer is: __

Benjamin Jarvis

“The urban legend of Yellow Oak Town had it that Benjamin Jarvis, born Benjamin ‘Jaja’ Jarvis, was a former tribal chief or a cult leader or something of that sort that came to this land seeking a place to settle after he was exiled by his own people. But it seemed that he didn't enjoy this new identity and the community, as he wouldn’t obey the civil way of living. There was one thing he enjoyed though, the beer.”

“Benjamin Jarvis would sat down at the bar and order a beer. He was the typical hairy guy you'd met in a bar, he had a beer belly round as a baby and a cherry smile like a girl, his face was red and his beard was long and white. There was a stench on him that everybody was afraid of, even the bartender had to slide away immediately, or just pass him the beer with a hard push from the other side. No one dare to talk to him, nor did he talked to anybody, it was the most awkward situation every Friday night.”

“The usual customers just ignored him by sitting away at the corner or went to the other end of the room. Normally there would be some new guy who was visiting the town and wanted to grab a drink but didn't know about our good old Benjamin here, and would provoke him after he or she got drunk. Those were the moments the bartenders and the crowd most afraid of. Not that Benjamin would do any harm, no, he would simply walk away and never look back until next week.”

“Benjamin seldom speak for his speech was low and harsh, and totally odd because it didn't fit in with his childish face. Under the hair, people suspected that Benjamin could be as a cheesy character as any teenage girl.”

“Benjamin lived in a house by the riverside which was well maintained. For him, a presumed tribal man that hadn’t picked up the art of modern technology, was pretty amazing. He had a bulldog on leash by the backyard, the kids heard him called it something like ‘Buzz’ or ‘Bush’, they weren't sure because he talked low. There was a little garden in his backyard but a very lifeless and sandy front porch, which was once occupied by some very beautiful and oily grass. Also, there was no electricity cable or water pipe ran into the house, he lighted candles and got fresh water from a well some fifty minutes walk from his place. It was like he still lived a raw life.”

“When he was not drinking, he would be seen on his boat in the river, sometimes a little bit into the lake at the downstream fishing. He was a skilled fisherman, every time he would return with at least a quarter full of fish in his tiny boat. There was some words carved on the side of the boat, too, but it was not readable or any language that we could understand, but it looked masculine, had pointy ends and strong curves.”

“Sometime he would go into the forest hunting with a knife that he would sharpen every once in a while on his front porch with a piece of black stone, and some clearly custom made bow and arrows and some other hunting tools. The kids and teens would gather at his place every time he returned, because not everyone could get something from the forest when they came out.”

“Now, let us gather around and pray for our friend, Benjamin Jarvis’s soul and bless him a peaceful afterlife as a faithful servant in the kingdom of the lord.”

Bright

Up ahead lay the blockade made by the villagers, they were in civilian clothings, not armed and definitely not as dangerous as the resistance force. The armored truck came to a stop before the barrier made of mostly haystacks and a few bricks. John told us the drivers was asking the villagers for permission to let us pass this section of the road while we sat at the back, waiting for their hospitality to open the door for us. Sara who sat next to me was uneasy, she moved her shoulders around and covered her face with wrinkles and sweat. From her left I saw her anxiety grew as the talking between the driver and the villagers went long and loud. I didn't understand a word they said but could guess from the villagers expression that we were not welcomed here.

"What's happening?" I said, eyes on Sara. Her legs was trembling like a girl who just experienced period in her bare pants.

"They want money, weapons to defend themselves. They'd be lucky if they could salvage anything from our truck." said John, our guide to the area, he had been my source for the past few years. He was very short but fat, like a teenager who never grew up in height but weight. And though the impression of his eyes were deep and dark, he didn't have that heavy of an accent as others contacts I had. John climbed behind the driver and handed him a few dollar bills and exchanged a few words.

Presently the road was cleared and our truck was moving again. The road was clear though sandy and uneven. We held on to the bars on the ceiling of the truck on this bumpy road and didn't say anything to each other for a long time.

Rekindled

Jack just recently came back from the front line of the battle because of a knee injury, and was rolling on a wheelchair when he came home. Home was never the same when a soldier retreated from the cries of the battlefield to the song of the civilisation. He later went to a rehabilitation facility to treat his wounds but during his first few weeks of stay, he found no purpose in living and thus slowed down, or made his recovery even worse.

There was this physician called Nate, great guy who was recruited and enlisted back in the old days. He was old, looks like sixty something, maybe more, no one knew how old he was because he didn't tell anybody. Nate was that kind of loner you meet-he work all day and then he sleep all night, rinse, repeat. Jack kind of admired this old man, living a dreadful life and no showing any kind of annoyance or spoke any word of complaint. Soon they were good buddy, chatting about the wars, past and present.

Then one day another injured officer came to the facility, a female named Janet, who suffered burns and fractures but survived in a suicide bombing. Nate was into her, always around her like a puppy looking for a pat. And Jack was a depressing, ignorant, sonofabitch, he played cool and never spoke with her for a long time. Until he saw Nate was trying to literally put his private body parts into her mouth while she was put under by drugs.

That's when our hero came in. He could save the Janet from humiliation, or he could join Nate in this total abomination. And of course he came into the room and landed a punch on Nate, which knocked out the only remaining tooth he had. Blood was on his hand when Nate tumbled backward and hit the corner of the table. Nate was then in a comma for a long time.

When Janet woke up in a new facility, no one told her what had happened except she was transferred on the order of the facility's director.

Total Overhaul

Just in the mood to something a normal tech-savvy person would do.

Revisited the good ole pale CSS and Google Font and ta-da, here we are, a new blogger design.

Well, technically it's just changes in here and there, most notably are the font and the color scheme.

For font, I used Muli as primary from Google Font, and Open Sans as fall-back. Most text should have a text-shadow of 1px and are either justified or center automatically. (Due to these changes, previous posts which are not written under the blogger's 'Normal' setting would remain the same, I'll make some time to alter them so as to retain the consistency by the magic of CSS!)

For colors, I opt for dim but soft, as you can see, soft gray and blue as background, while some dimmer blue for text.

P.S. I still hate the left side bar, it ruined everything.

24 Hours of Happy

24 Hours of Happiness on Youtube

24 Hours of Happiness on 24hoursofhappy.com/

Happy is simple.
Dance along, stranger.
May you find happiness from 24 hours of music.

The Phony

He pretends, he's funny and wicked, he's sad and dramatic, he's everything you like.

He studies you, he knows your every move and favorite flavor of ice cream even if you don't like them at all.

He comes near you, you may see him around, but never got a name. Then someday he approaches you and you are immediately having a nice feeling about this guy. It just seems random that you two meet.

He has multiple targets at a time, the time he's alone he will study about you, and other current objectives, and when he's out on the street, he'll get you, he'll be your valentine and you'll trust him.

He lives many lives, he manages multiple identities, then someday he disappeared from your life, as if he never existed.

He existed, only in you mind.

The Underlying Fee

You are late,

Pay up the administration fee.

You are late,

Pay up the late fee,

You are late,

Pay up the sundry expense.

You are late,

Pay up!

Terrible

It has to come to this.

The owner of our flat's kicking us out, so that they could renovate the unit and rent it out for more money(they did the same things with two of their units just next to ours). The contract ends 15, June, about 3 months from now. But, I can't blame anyone but money itself, and it's kind of a problem for everything nowadays.

Mom said there's a place up on the 10th floor, maybe we could stay their until the public housing offer comes through. But I don't expect it to be cheap or affordable. I might have to get a job so as to keep up with the rent.

But the good thing is that we won't be living with other tenants anymore as we have decided. Ah, it will be great. I mean, living with other people is not bad if they were good, decent people(I'm implying that those who lived with us are not).

The whole thing is just, maddening, saddening. Frustration kicks in and I can do nothing about it. I'm just glad that I can keeping shouting and cursing and swearing, cuz who's there to stop me from venting out my anger when it's a terrible news to anyone.

It's not that I like where I'm living, It's just that I don't want to see my parents and sister work harder than they should be just to keep a shelter. Nobody should struggle with living like this, but there're just so many factors that things could go wrong. How glad I'm there's still a place for us to stay.

Indeed, it's not thanksgiving, but don't stop giving what mean to be given. And start asking, what's next?

I could go work for anyone or anything but McDonald's, that's for sure.

Hulu Movie Night: The Usual Suspects (1995)

Saw that it has maintained a high rating on IMDB, maybe worth a while, looks cool.

Watch now on Hulu for free (Expire 11 March)

Handsup Crew

Typical Hollywood stuff, a crew of more than four person, each with their own skillset pulling off a job.

But someone slipped and tipped off the cops, jobs went wrong, what's left to fight for but their life.

Who's the rat? No one, because you know what? It's was never about the job but to pretend pulling off something real nice so as to distract the cops and kill with a purpose. To live in the thrill, at the brink of life, so that they could say farewell when they die.

Now handsup, mothertrucker, 'cuz you're shoot in the arse and unable to commit suicide.

News Flash!

Breaking news! Or not so breaking after all.

A flight went missing and people are worried.

The Internet broke the news even further with almost no delay, though the details are often vague or fake.

What a news flash means to people nowadays? Do we really care about it? Oh yeah, we care, we care how much we know about the thing so that we can talk about it.

Two weeks later. Blank, nothing, never heard of that.

In a way, breaking news is breaking the traditional delay, a time and space for accepting the unexpected, a time to drown the pain and kill the tears.

What's good about news flash is that people cares, they cares too freaking much that even though they have tons of work to do, they would pray for the misfortune, they would help spread the words out, and deliver a clear message to the world that they care.

I don't care what you cared about, it's creating a sort of panic, totally unnecessary panic, irrelevant panic that stressed everyone. Making it not normal to not care, making it personal even though it's just an virus of mind.

News Flash: So, what do you care?

Letter to Neighbor

Dear neighbor,

I respect your taste of music and all, but could you please turn down the volume of your speaker or use a headphone, especially when you are listening to music in the middle of the night and/or early in the morning. I understand you might want to relax and indulge yourself after a day's work, but please, be considerate.

Looking forward to a good night sleep.

Best,
Your neighbor

New Rigs (Sort of)

Thanks to my friend Danny, who happened to have multiple computer monitors at his disposal, and that he has a huge heart to give away one of them to me for free. It's a 16:9 BenQ T900HD, which after a quick Google, revealed it as one cheap mutherf*ucker in the market. It's better than nothing though. At least now I don't have to face that 17' HP screen, which is a 4:3, a really old module dating back to year 2005. Yeah I know, it's fossil and ancient relics. It was blinking during every turn on recently (well, a few months is recent to me), so that I just brought up the topic when I was chatting with D.

And that's what friends are for, right? We talk about stuff, we come up with the difficulties that we are facing, and we help each others out with their problems. Life couldn't be more easier than that.

Man, I've always keep things close, I mean, I won't buy new stuff for replacement unless really necessary. So that's why I am still using my beat up Samsung Galaxy Mini (Yeah, mini as in mini predating year 2011).

It's all for the environment man, for the better future and what not bullshit that I believed in.

Until next time, peace.

(Squeezing my shoulders and typing these words on my Acer C720 Chrombook, since sista have works to do on our desktop. I hope she enjoys it, not that she use it often 'cuz I'm going to play games and movies and tv shows on it, oh yeah, 16:9, I am coming baby.)

Shade

When the sun first comes up, it looked like a bird.

When it is nine in the morning, it looked like a cup.

When it is noon, it looked like a circle.

When it is dusk, it looked like a bird again.

Miss Bourbon with her Randy

"Where's that boy now?" said Miss Bourbon in the backyard. "Come out now, boy, we oughta get goin',"

Out from the dog house ran Randy, a white labradoodle with his tongue sticking out in the sultry summer morning air. His legs stepped on the wet but green and lively grass as he sprinted toward Miss Bourbon.

"Who's the good boy now," Miss Bourbon bend down and gave Randy a good scratch on his head. "Yes you are, Randy, yes you are a good boy," she straightened up and walked to the front yard with Randy circling around her.

Randy stopped to play with a butterfly and was eager to reach it that he jumped and leaped into the air.

"Come on now boy," Miss Bourbon patted her right legs and Randy took the cue and ran back to his owner.

Six Month!

How I Write

Alternative between Writebox and Google Doc

What I Worked on and Am Working On

I submitted 3 stories on late February since the last monthly update. 1 of them are flash fictions(under 1000 words), 2 are short fictions (About 2500 words) (1 of the flash fiction and 1 of the short fiction were rejected earlier by others and I submitted to another place).

Currently working on a piece that's going to Tor.com, I'm seeing it to well over 10,000 words (Currently around 9,500 words) And will set it dry for about a week or two before revising and editing for final submission.

Currently drafting an idea for the monthly fiction submission to The New Yorker Magazine.

Currently drafting an idea for a flash fiction story.

Why I Write

I write to liberate myself from the world I lived in.

Where I Write

In my own room in front of the Acer C720 Chromebook.

And other imaginary spaces I conjured upon writing.

Who Motivated Me This Month

Ernest Hemingway, see below

What Am I Reading

Read only three books since the last update because Moby Dick is long and difficult to digest, I still don't think I have got more than one percent from the book, may reread it someday. For more about what I've read, please visit my reading list.

Moby Dick; or, the White Whale by Herman Melville[22/02/2014]
The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway[26/02/2014]
A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway[02/03/2014]

Currently reading The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Just started so, yeah, looking forward to finish it in the coming week. And since it's quite a short read (Kindle estimated it be about 3 hours based on my reading speed), I guess I'll be jumping on the The Casual Vacancy by J. K. Rowling for this week as well, as part of the weekly reading goal.
P.S. : Ernest Hemingway totally rocks, he maybe drunk, but he's not your typical drunkard.

Am I studying

Obviously YES.
I am currently enrolled into 1 MOOC(Massive Open Online Course) provided byedX, and I believe much more to come this year.

Jazz Appreciation

I've also picked up a new language to master this year and is currently advancing my German on Duolingo!
Auf Wiedersehen

Some more courses coming in January 2014.
Continue

It has been a fruitful sixth month, I've written roughly 20,000 words.

~17000 words short fictions, ~3000 words blog and other writings.

And you may expect to see some clip art for some of my previous ideas and concept from a friend of my who might just give it a try, but again, no promise.

Carpenter

My old man was a carpenter, and so was his father, my grandfather. They were young once but they were steady and hardworking and trustworthy. They had built great many houses for the common folks around the now greater Philadelphia areas, and their names were reputable among the carpenters secret association.

Grandpa had taught me how to do the handiwork when I was just six. I remembered being ugly to him whenever he pushed me to do the wood trimming and steel bending. I hated the work though I dreaded through it every time. My attention to details had him impressed and made my old man proud once, but as I grew up, they same praise never came. I would help out my dad's construction whenever I had time, not that I was that much into school nor did I had a good grade, I was never fit for the books. It was hard work that paid, my old man used to say. So during every school holiday or even just a few hours after school, I would be at whatever project, houses that he was working on. And since almost everyone at work knew me because of my father and grandfather, I never felt the isolation or being treated as a newcomer, an incompetent piece of trash. Instead I would really help out with what I can do at my age.

When I was younger, I would just help the worker with passing the base materials and maybe ran a few errand of water and foods and towels, and sometimes be a messenger to pass invitation to folks around town. I grew up to be as stocky as my grandpa, and my old man was said to be ranking the third in the family in the body build meter. His older brother was the second. And grandpa and I were the first. And as I had the power, I began to do the heavy lifting and nail banging when I was just twelve. I was not a kid to them anymore and I was being treated much harsh. My old man had high standard to his work and I compiled to his demand. But all the time I grew more and more tired of this work. I hated it, I had always hated it growing up.

At seventeen, I dropped high school and went out with a few friends to New York, and spent a year chasing our dreams and later opened a bar in a favorable location. We were lucky and I had earned quite a lot at first as one of the associated partners, and I had sent almost a third of what I earned every month to my mother, which I later found out she had saved every penny I sent in a bank account.

But every story had to had a sordid end, as with every friendship. Let's just said that our partnership faced an unsolvable problem and we had a huge fight and that broke us apart after the shop was just two years and a half. For another year I littered around the city with my remaining savings, I didn't sent money to my mother during that period. I had moved from a studio apartment from the upper east side which our partnership shared, to a tiny apartment in downtown near the Chinatown. I didn't took up a job or did anything for that matters. I just wasted it in bars and clubs and girls.

SumFought: Hannibal Season 2 Premier

The best psychopath thriller is now back on TV every Friday Night on NBC at 1o PM. You can catch it on Hulu for free like most NBC shows.

So, Will Graham is back, and the same is with Dr. Hannibal Lecter. And just as I was watching the premier, I suddenly realized why they named it Will, or at least I think they did it because of the pun. It was from the dialogue between Agent Jack Crawford and Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter: "We can't define Will only by his maddest edges."
Agent Jack Crawford: "We can't define Will at all."

See what they did there? They're putting a larger ideology into five seconds, on TV, that flashes and possibly goes down the drain without even seeing the light of day. Which also lead us to the artistic style, the cinematography that the show Hannibal continue to adopt. The darker and dim color, a world portrayed as a lifeless environment, only a specific bunch could exist under the focused lens. And it also brought up the blurred background and the impressive post-production.

And while Will was still imprisoned and much desperate to liberate himself as he drew closer to the lost memory of Hannibal, he continued to help the investigation just as the previous season, though in a much less comfortable position as a presumed psychologically insane.

And since it's the premier of season 2, the show again, displayed its intrigue sequence and unconditioned love to violence and blood and gore. It was the opening scene where Agent Jack Crawford fought against Dr. Hannibal Lecter. And man, isn't it just great to see them hit it off and bring it down to the fists and knife and tie and let the unsolved begone and resolve the hate in a mash of blood?

And if you had been following Hannibal season 1, you'll notice that the delicious foods prepared by our very own Dr. Hannibal Lecter continued to shine and twinkle. The guy who prepared these food backstage, behind the camera absolutely deserve a big round of applause. (I don't think Mads Mikkelsen, the guy who plays Dr. Hannibal Lecter could pull it off all by himself). It must be someone with extensive knowledge of food, either by research or gathered from travel.

And, if you are not with Hannibal for the last season, a huge chance is that you will miss quite a bit of information before Will was locked in a cell. But if you are intrigued merely by the violence, then welcome to the feast, Hannibal.

Ywrighting

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Seven Month!

Hong Kong Rugby Sevens

Clean Up

You Are Not Dizzy? How About Now?

Camp NaNoWriMo

A Walk

Mace of Coxdale

Bobby Knows the Best

Back and Home Again

Bewildered

Deck

Sell Hard

Benjamin Jarvis

Bright

Rekindled

Total Overhaul

24 Hours of Happy

The Phony

The Underlying Fee

Terrible

Hulu Movie Night: The Usual Suspects (1995)

Handsup Crew

News Flash!

Letter to Neighbor

New Rigs (Sort of)

Shade

Miss Bourbon with her Randy

Six Month!

Carpenter

SumFought: Hannibal Season 2 Premier

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